


THE ELMO INCIDENT

by Agent_Orange_III, Brooke_Lynn



Series: AWAKENINGS UNIVERSE [4]
Category: Captain America: The First Avenger - Fandom, Iron Man I, Iron Man II, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: An AWAKENINGS ONE-SHOT, Angst, Awesome Phil Coulson, F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muppet Madness, Natasha Feels, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Phil Coulson is the Stark Whisperer, Protective Team, Scared Tony, The Cheese is Slipping Off Tony's Cracker, The Team is Family, Tony Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 14:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Orange_III/pseuds/Agent_Orange_III, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brooke_Lynn/pseuds/Brooke_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Elmo Incident</i> is a One-Shot story that takes place within the <i>Awakenings</i> Universe. This tale fits into the time-line as a missing scene within the novella <i>Kaleidoscope</i>; for reference, the events in <i>The Elmo Incident</i> take place between the action in chapters 13 and 14. </p><p>Since <i>Kaleidoscope</i> is told from Steve’s point of view, he has only heard mention of the “Elmo Incident” that took place while he was terribly ill. Now we learn exactly how Tony came to acquire a stuffed Elmo for Steve, and the toll his critical condition is taking on his team and especially his lover, Tony Stark. </p><p>Both humorous and poignant,<i>The Elmo Incident</i> reflects the angst, frustration, anger, and helplessness a person experiences when a loved one is in crisis, and depicts these emotions in a way that is uniquely Tony Stark. Find out how a furry red Muppet can both break and make one of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THE ELMO INCIDENT

**Author's Note:**

> **From Brooke Lynn:**  
>  While _The Elmo Incident_ takes place within my universe, I can’t take credit for it. The story was written by my partner, Agent_Orange_III. I merely tweaked and added a few suggestions; the magic of this tale came from her. I’m thrilled and honored she is willing to enter my universe, as her writing has delighted and inspired me for many years. I’m proud to be able to share this with the followers of the _Awakenings_ Series so that you may experience her talent for yourselves. None of my stories would exist without her support, inspiration, and editing genius, and now she has taken another step by sharing her writing talents as well. I’m hoping she will contribute more One-Shots, as I know you will be as delighted by her fiction as I am. Enjoy! 
> 
> **From Agent_Orange_III:**  
>  In much the same vein as the Marvel One-Shots, my tale is short and a mixture of humor and pathos. As those of you who know her well can attest, Brooke_Lynn is far too kind and generous. Her delightfully romantic tales have inspired me to make a small contribution to the universe. I presented her with a chubby skeleton, and her amazing editing abilities and to-the-point additions have fully fleshed the tale. For her efforts, I insisted that she take a co-writing credit, even though she is far too modest to suggest sharing the masthead herself. All mistakes are my own, and many thanks to Brooke_Lynn for letting me join her initiative! I do have other One-Shots in mind for the _Awakenings_ Universe—let's see if I can make them happen with Brooke_Lynn's help.
> 
> *Please read the Series Notes for the _Awakenings_ Universe for clarification as to what aspects of The Avengers movie-verse will and won’t be found in this series. I would not want anyone to be disappointed.

Natasha Romanoff stands in the doorway of Thor’s handsomely appointed suite, an open-plan living room and bedroom. She keenly observes the two men under her care without appearing to look at them at all; nevertheless, no detail escapes her. Phil Coulson’s steely squint does nothing to mask his waxy complexion, and his ramrod straight posture, rather than hide his exhaustion, announces loud and proud that he is overcompensating. Well, the tell is obvious to one who knows him as intimately as the Black Widow. His companion, one Tony Stark—genius, billionaire, philanthropist, and former playboy—leans heavily upon the handles of Phil’s wheelchair. Hair askew, clothes rumpled, and normally neat Vandyke decidedly shaggy, Tony looks like a high-class hobo.

The pair, framed by the French doors leading to the balcony, wearily savor the evening breeze and the moderate decrease in temperature it brings. With the doors open and the fans on, this room is less stifling than the suite they have been sweltering in since early last evening, but, as is the case with the entire villa, the air conditioning remains shut down to keep even the hint of chill out of the sickroom suite closest to this one. The sheer curtains caress the men with ghostly arms, at times momentarily shrouding their faces; neither bothers to bat the diaphanous fabric away, not possessing the energy to do anything more than stare unseeing into the night. Natasha has the feeling, though, that Phil and Tony are looking inward, and can see all too well the source of their shared exhaustion—a gravely ill Steve Rogers, unconscious in the next room.

_Gravely._

The Widow always chooses her words carefully, for words are as much weapons as the hideout in its thigh holster, the punch dagger at the small of her back, the razorblade in the sole of her sandal, and the garrote secreted in the hem of her shirt. When she labels Steve “gravely” ill, she means it literally: The man could die. Seems likely, in fact. The thought causes something alien to twist behind her breastbone. She allows her gritty eyes to close, for just a moment, and ignores the unpleasant sensation, concentrating instead upon the distant sound of the waves breaking upon the shore. When she opens them again, it is to the sight of Phil’s chin coming to rest on his chest. Natasha knows it’s time to go to work.

_No rest for the weary . . . or the wicked._

Moving forward on cat’s paws, Natasha slides in next to Tony. Over bright eyes lock with hers. A tip of her chin and an inquisitively arched brow silently convey her plan. Will Tony be lucid enough to get her message? Yes, lucid enough. He unships the brakes and rolls Phil towards the couch.

“Not the bed?” Natasha queries in a low, but conversational volume. The quickest way to garner a spy’s attention is to whisper. Tony’s wry face gives sufficient warning that his answer will be a droll one.

“I don’t think Agent wants to risk sleeping in Thor’s bed—all that pussy and jiz, you know?”

“I thought the Thorgies only took place in the guest cabana?”

“You really wanna bet the farm that cleanliness is next to godliness?”

“Good point. Let’s get him settled on the long part of the sectional sofa.”

Together, they gently manhandle Phil onto the couch without completely waking him. When the agent’s eyes seek to flutter open, Tony gently places his palm over them, even as he leans in to whisper, “ _Shush_. Clint sez, ‘Goodnight, pappy.’ ”

Without lifting his lids, Phil mutters, “Clint’s not old enough to remember _Popeye_. Steve would get that one.”

“Yeah? I didn’t think there was a cartoon in existence that Birdboy couldn’t quote.”

“Maybe,” Phil says around a huge yawn. “Maybe you’re right.”

“We’ll test the theory after Steve gets better.”

Natasha can hear the strained timber of Tony’s voice, a sure indicator of crushing stress, and that the man is lying—to himself, mostly, but also to the man under his nominal care.

“Yesh,” Phil slurs. “When Steve’s better.”

Natasha notes the papery texture of Phil’s eyelids, how exhaustion has thinned the skin over his sunken eyes. The man who has been her boss for as long as she’s been with SHIELD is instantly asleep.

“Unless you want to sing him a lullaby or tuck him in with a teddy bear,” Tony grinds out in his best attempt at _sotto voce_ , “I’d say our work here is done.” Tony eyes the door that leads to Steve’s sickroom like a hound casting about for a lost scent. Natasha can see that Tony’s agitation is already starting to rise. Getting him out of that room in the first place was no easy feat despite Steve’s continued unconscious state. Coulson was likely the only lure that would have worked—along with Banner’s sworn oath to alert him if Steve’s eyelashes so much as fluttered, and Barton’s shameless guilting about what Cap would have wanted, all of which would be for naught if she couldn’t complete her mission to keep him in here long enough to rest. Time for a distraction.

“No lullabies necessary, Stark,” she says primly. “But I do need you to sit with him while I clean up.” She flips her greasy hair in the direction of the ensuite bathroom, communicating with gestures what Tony might be too weary to hear in words. It seems to take overlong for the man to garner her meaning, but at last he nods.

“Go ahead. I’ve got this.” Tony’s tablet appears in his hands, as if by magic. Natasha nods in admiration, imagining the weaponry he could hide on his person if the man were so inclined. On the other hand, she muses, Tony could no doubt cause more damage with a tablet then she could with a similar mass of C-4.

Already absorbed in the world of his electronic gadget, Tony begins to pace, circling the sofa like a shark in a tank. Before he’s completed one circuit, she moves to cut him off, bringing Tony up short. Nearly face to face, Natasha looks up into bloodshot eyes.

“Don’t pace, Tiger,” she admonishes. “You’ll wake the boss.” She points to the couch with her chin, indicating the empty space at Coulson’s head, and refuses to move off station until Tony responds to her silent command.

“Not my boss,” Tony says truculently, even as he settles into the cushions next to Phil with a weary sigh.

Taking his toy away will only further aggravate Tony, so Natasha tries a different tack: Knowing that people in newly monogamous relationships find sexually ambiguous situations uncomfortable, she begins methodically to remove her clothing. She starts by pulling her shirt over her head, revealing a blue sports bra that covers far more flesh than the bikini she’d worn earlier in their vacation—but it is more than enough to get Stark to drop his eyes. And having closed once, they obviously didn’t want to open again.

“You know,” Tony mumbles, “there’s a bathroom.”

“What’s the matter, Stark? Afraid your eyeballs are going burst into flame?”

“Just restin’em. For minute. Gotta get back. Steve.”

She takes her time undressing, each languorous movement allowing Tony to more deeply embrace somnolence. By the time she toes off her sandals and steps out of her skirt, the genius is gently snoring, the powered-down tablet forgotten by his thigh. Snagging her clothes from the untidy pile at her feet in one hand, and hooking the straps of her sandals with the other, she double checks both men one last time before stalking into the bathroom.

Natasha evaluates her appearance in the vanity and decides she looks like she feels: A smoked oyster packed in oil. She rummages with impunity through Thor’s toiletries, unwilling to leave Phil and Tony unattended, even for the few minutes it would take to step further down the hall to the suite she shares with Bruce. The first thing she discovers in his gear is an overlarge leather wallet. The deeply-tooled outer designs are what she’s come to expect from Thor’s culture—sinuous, abstract animals interlaced with swords and hammers, craftily dyed in deep reds and blues, highlighted with gold wire. Inside is a curious set of small metal tools, forged in what looks to be silver.

At first her fogged brain tries to cast the silvery objects in the role of lock picks, but a moment’s consideration reveals the absurdity of the notion. _Thor—sneak thief?_ She gives a small snort of amusement. Looking at the tools with fresher eyes, she can see now that it is a grooming kit. The tweezer is easy to identify, as is the scissor, once you take into account the odd-shaped handles; and the thin tool with a small, round spoon-like end must be the Asgardian version of a non-disposable Q-Tip. Nestled in a pocket of the wallet is a wide-toothed comb and a hook-shaped tool that niggles at Natasha’s mind. The Greek word _strigil_ rises at last to the fore of her brain, a tool used by ancient Greeks and Romans to scrape dirt, sweat, and more noisome fluids from the body. She hadn’t realized the ancient Norse used them too. _Or did they?_ She is as guilty as the rest of the team of over ascribing ancient tropes to the very modern alien in their midst. With a shrug, she closes the grooming kit, and rummages through the rest of Thor’s things, collecting what she will need: The absence of whatever passes for otherworldly hygiene products is only a momentary letdown; the big purple pump-bottle of _Aussie Moist_ shampoo will have to do. And the _SpongeBob SquarePants_ toothpaste shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it is—a mild one, yes, but a surprise nonetheless. All thoughts of godliness and cleanliness aside, Natasha isn’t so desperate as to use the demi-god’s _Dora the Explorer_ toothbrush. Instead, she squeezes a measure of candy-colored paste onto a clean washcloth and uses that to scrub her tongue and teeth, all the while keeping an eye on the sleeping beauties reflected in the mirror’s surface.

_Out cold._

Just the thought of the word _cold_ washes through her mind longingly. Despite her compassion for whatever dark, frozen hell haunts Steve, causing the man to shiver and writhe in real and remembered pain, Natasha can admit—at least to herself—that she is weary of stewing in her own juices. Not that she regrets one parboiled moment, suffered gladly for a comrade-in-arms. It is only that this daughter of Mother Russia will never be over-fond of tropical climes, preferring any season to summer. Her eyes slide sideways, taking in the glass-walled shower, a mere two meters away. Tempted, her eyes dart again, caressing the cool marble. She brings her gaze back to the mirror, and the two men reflected there. After a moment’s consideration, she picks up her skirt to rummage in the pocket, drawing out a compact. She and the compact are _venninne_ , old friends, who have suffered through many a campaign together.

With an ease born of long practice, Natasha angles the compact on the vanity in such a way that she can see Phil and Tony from the shower. Her eyes can’t rival Clint’s, but nevertheless her vision is very, very sharp. Slipping off her panties, she’s in the shower, Thor’s toiletries in hand, turning the taps, and under the spray in seconds.

Worried the plash of the water will wake the ever-antsy Tony, she uses the blade of one palm like a squeegee, pushing aside the droplets on the glass that would block her reflection of the couch and its occupants, even as the other lathers her hair. Instead of disturbing Tony, the man appears lulled by the white noise of the shower, listing sideways—thankfully away from Phil—just before a line of drool creeps into his beard.

_Good._

She is the mistress of the two-minute shower, and is completely clean _everywhere_ in exactly 120 seconds . . . but the reflection in the compact tells her Phil and Tony slumber peacefully on. It’s tempting to step out of the shower and join them, to curl up in the corner section of the sofa near Phil’s feet, small but no less deadly for being folded in upon herself. But the water pressure pummels her muscles perfectly, and the temperature is soothing—cool enough to put the fire out in her flesh, but warm enough not to inspire a chill—and Natasha decides to extend her ablutions, preferring it to a too-short nap.

Long practice allows her to put her mind in neutral, her situational awareness such that she has no trouble keeping watch on Tony and Phil. Unfortunately, she can’t dial down to the point of shutting off all thoughts of Steve. Some part of her mind (Her rational self?) cringes away from the memory of Phil ordering her to stand down—as if she really could terminate with extreme prejudice the evil ghost daddies of the universe. If she possessed that power, she would have long since used it to settle accounts with Clint’s abusive father. For that matter, if even half the intel in Bruce’s file is accurate—and she has no reason to believe it is anything but precise, given that Hill herself compiled the data—she would like nothing better than to have a time machine, a knife, and five minutes alone with the true monster in the Banner family, Bruce’s father.

Lamentably, enemies from long ago and far away are safe from even her formidable skills, but Natasha isn’t fully convinced Steve’s assailants are purely intangible. Her flesh gives a hard shiver that has nothing to do with the water temperature. Her rational mind knows that the sudden chill is the body’s response to a burst of adrenaline, despite old wives’ tales of geese walking over graves. But there is _nothing_ rational to the abiding sensation that someone unseen had been sitting on the sofa next to her. She’d told herself she was merely reacting to the very convincing reflection of the presence in Steve’s eyes, but a life-long liar recognized her own prevarication. She had _felt_ the presence—and it wasn’t the only one.

Something dangerous had tweaked her honed instincts, even before Steve had leapt deliriously from the bed toward the unseen shadow that had chased the peaceful presence from the sofa. She hadn’t spared thought for it then, distracted by the way Steve’s eyes had bulged, the wail torn from his throat, and the pitiful sound that had penetrated to the core of Natasha’s not-nearly-hard-enough heart when the peaceful presence dissipated. Hours later, when the shadow returned, she was ready, her weapon in hand even before Steve’s arm had pointed toward the seemingly empty corner. Sure, she retreated to the doorway when the boss had ordered her to, Coulson wisely recognizing the fear her weapon would engender in the now regressed five-year-old ‘Stevie,’ but her guard never dropped.

She’d only sheathed her pistol when Steve had crawled beneath the credenza because she’d needed both hands to restrain Clint from pushing between Thor and Tony to drag Steve from the floor bodily, wanting to protect the man from reliving a horror he was far too familiar with. Even her enhanced strength wouldn’t have been enough to hold the archer back, but for Coulson’s orders: Phil’s beloved voice could leash Clint, if just barely, because he’d long been trained by the agent to routinely perform the impossible at his command. While Steve remained locked in a nightmarish past, Clint could never really stand down, but he could stand to, ready to help, ready to respond to the slightest instruction.

Natasha douses her face beneath the water, recognizing her train of thought has veered too far from the mission at hand. There is nothing to be gained from this mental masturbation. Twenty minutes later, Natasha emerges from the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel and discontent at her inability to do anything to help Steve beyond seeing to Coulson and making sure Tony doesn’t spin out of control, but she plans to succeed at these tasks. _At least I have some experience babysitting temperamental billionaires._ Thankfully, all is quiet: Tony’s stopped drooling and Phil has started snoring softly—no need to taze anyone into submission, not that she would need a tazer to do it. It’s only when she’s toweling the last of the water from her hair that she hears a light, professional rap at the door of suite. She immediately retrieves her pistol from the top of the wicker hamper and peers from behind the open bathroom door into the suite.

“Mister Tony,” Marcella—one of Stark’s trusted staff flown in from the tower—calls with her lilting Trinidadian accent. “The package you been waitin’ on just comin’ from Miami, sir.”

 _Package?_ What package would Stark have sent for in the midst of Steve’s crisis? Natasha hasn’t even seen him on the phone since—yesterday?

Tony jolts awake with a snort, his bloodshot eyes casting about wildly, as if he doesn’t know his location—or, more likely, the location of someone far dearer. “Wha’—” Tony barks.

“I know you don’t want no one underfoot, Mister Tony,” Marcella explains through the closed door. “But I don’t think you wantin’ the package left down the gatehouse either.”

“Package?” Tony mutters. “From Miami?” Natasha watches as Tony’s brow scrunches so tight it resembles a cauliflower. But then his countenance clears; his wolfish smile flashes. “Elmo!” Tony cries out, shooting to his feet, oblivious to the man sleeping next to him, heedless of the tablet that he knocks to the floor. “Elmo’s here!”

 _Elmo?_ Natasha thinks dryly, as Tony scampers to open the door. _Bozhe moi._

Only when she’s visually confirmed the identity of the servant does she lower her pistol. A flash memory of _Dune_ causes a ghost of a smile to twitch the corner of her lip: She’d bonded with Frank Herbert’s mentat assassin the minute Thufir Hawat had insisted the sounds of others could be imitated. Still, even as she finishes dressing in her crumpled clothing, Natasha keeps her eye glued to the sliver of space between the door and the frame. Marcella is both tall and broad, nearly as big as Tony in his Iron Man armor, but far darker than the flashy red and gold suit. The woman handles the huge cardboard box with ease, passing it to her boss with nary a second glance, as if his disheveled appearance is nothing out of the ordinary. Come to think of it, she probably is used to seeing the billionaire jacked up on _Red Bull_ and smelling like a homeless man after one of his manic eighty-hour science marathons.

“Good thinking, Marci,” Tony says excitedly. “Thanks for bringing this up.”

“Then I be headin’ back to the staff house, unless you be wantin’ somethin’?”

Tony shakes his head, his gaze riveted to the package that nearly swamps him, making him look like a boxy Mr. Peanut in blue jeans. Marcella smiles, but before bidding him goodnight, she says softly, “We all prayin’ for Cap’n Steve. He’ll be shaking dis malady real soon, don’t you worry yourself.”

Neither Marcella nor Natasha could see Tony’s face behind the box, but his knees clearly give way some, and not from the burden of his bundle. “Thanks, Marci,” he mutters awkwardly. Natasha feels certain Tony puts as much stock in prayer as she does, but that doesn’t mean he can’t appreciate someone who does turning their prayer channel to Steve. At this point, she is sure Tony would hire a native rainmaker, gather a handful of four-leaf clovers, or consider sacrificing a fatted calf if he thought there was a chance any of it would help Steve.

Which, oddly enough, brings her attention back to the box. For Tony to have taken even a precious minute away from Steve to put in an order to the mainland for _anything_ , there has to be a connection. As Marcella bids him goodnight, closing the door quietly, the box begins to walk.

“There better be some goddamn Elmos in here, or the Miami branch of Stark Industries will be shooting their résumés over to _RadioShack_ come morning,” Tony mutters, bypassing the couch and staggering over to the bed with the giant package. He settles the box on the edge of the mattress, as far away from Phil as possible and still be in the room. She flicks her gaze to Phil’s unmoving form, thinking he must be truly wiped out to sleep through all this racket—or truly trusting of his companions. _Probably the latter._ Agents are adept at grabbing sleep on the fly and tuning out white noise when necessary—white noise constituting anything that doesn’t set off an instinctive internal alarm.

Natasha turns her gaze back to Tony, even as she finishes redressing, including secreting her weapons about her person—well, except for her panties, preferring to go _au naturel_ rather than put the soiled garment back on. _There’s no sense taking a shower if you’re going to put on dirty underpants._ She could go out and help Tony with the box, but she prefers to stay where she is for the moment, choosing to see how the scene plays out.

She notes appraisingly that the box is large enough to hide a body—two, if they’re small and she’s willing to break some bones—but Tony’s competent hands make short work of the packing tape. She watches as he throws open the lid with the showmanship of a best man revealing a stripper at a ubiquitous bachelor party. She feels a smirk quirk the corner of her lips at the image of “Burlesque Elmo” leaping from a giant gift box, complete with tassels and G-string, but all that greets Tony is a snowy layer of packing peanuts.

“This shit literally takes a million years to degrade in a landfill,” Tony grumbles, pushing aside the top layer of Styrofoam, unmindful of the mess he makes of the bedspread and the floor. “I gotta get R&D on something better. Maybe embed a Styrofoam-eating microorganism that lives just long enough to accelerate the degradation process . . . or perhaps a nanobot?” Tony’s voice trails off as he plunges his hands through the peanuts and fishes out a fuzzy red form about the size of a four-year-old. He seems singularly unimpressed.

 _“Humph.”_ Tony squints at the packaging. “ _Dance with Me Elmo_. Not fucking likely. Steve barely dances with me.” He places the towering toy on the storage bench at the foot of the bed. “What else we got here?”

Tony blindly snags another Elmo, and the packaging on this one proclaims _Ready for School Elmo_ , which is met by another dismissive grunt. The ABC and 1-2-3 shoes are a clever touch, Natasha thinks, as are the multicolored triangle-circle-square buttons on his little waistcoat, but Tony’s frowny brow announces his disdain. “Steve’s not a kindergartener, either,” Tony quips, tossing the doll towards the pillows at the head of the bed. The stray peanuts clinging to its box are dislodged by his rough handling, and the breeze from the ceiling fan causes the packing material to swirl in the air, forming an artificial dust devil.

The next Elmo falls somewhere in size between his dancing and preschool brothers; the packaging proclaims _Big Hugs Elmo_ , and the grippy arms and happy mug at first seem promising, if the contemplative expression on Tony’s own mug is to be believed—but it is short-lived. “I can definitely see you, Mister Huggy-Wuggy, cramping my bedroom style by taking up _waaaaay_ too much space between me and Captain Hot Pants.” Kicking the dancing Elmo to the curb, Tony stuffs the latest Elmo into the storage bench at the foot of the bed, closing the lid with the finality of a Van Helsing locking a vampire into its coffin, as if burying the very idea of anyone—or anything—other than himself delivering big hugs to Steve.

Natasha watches as Tony stands up too quickly, wobbles, and nearly face-plants on the bed, before catching himself at the last moment. “Whoa,” he breathes. If she thought Tony would accept her help, she would go to the man and steady him—but Natasha knows that Tony is never more Iron Man than when he’s out of the armor and feeling only a tenuous grip on his control. _Best to leave him to it, and pick up the pieces later, if necessary._

After a moment, Tony pushes himself up. He arches his back, and she can hear each vertebra crack Kalashnikov-loud from across the suite. At last he turns again to the box, and fishes amid the peanuts. “What have we here,” Tony mutters. “ _Lullaby & Goodnight Elmo_.” He tears the box to shreds in seconds, pieces of cardboard and zip ties flying—Natasha wondering if spies are moonlighting in the toy packing plant, the restraints are so secure—until Elmo is released from his boxy prison. His engineer’s hands caress the furry red body for a moment, then he punts the toy into the corner. “Who would buy this crap? It’s like a fucking concrete block wrapped in fur.”

With a look of grim determination, Tony’s arm stabs through the Styrofoam bits again; it draws forth a _Happy Birthday Elmo_ dressed in a baby bodysuit and a party hat. The birthday toy is stripped of its box and tape quickly, but once Tony gets a good grip on its now-naked form, the party is over. “This one actually feels like there’s a load in his pants.” Elmo and his pointy hat are kicked so hard, he bounces off the bathroom door before landing at Natasha’s feet. She almost feels sorry for him, lying there, rejected, his googly eyes staring vacantly up at her as if she had the power to arrange for him to join the party. Pissed at her own exhausted anthropomorphic musings, she gives Birthday Elmo a kick of her own, sending him crashing into the wall between the toilet and the bidet.

Evidently, _Squeeze a Song Elmo_ doesn’t please Tony any better, as Natasha overhears him mutter something about how this Elmo “Feels like he needs to squeeze out a hard loaf. I want my baby-blue to have something soft and cuddly. Did I not make it crystal clear to these fuckers I wanted soft, cuddly Elmos? Half of these furry freaks have hard fucking ping-pong balls for eyes. Soft and cuddly! Soft and cuddly. Is this a difficult fucking concept for people who make five-figure salaries?”

It isn’t long before the packing peanuts are heaped ankle deep, the floor and bed strewn with torn cardboard. Discarded Elmo carcasses litter the floor like bodies from a horror flick: _Sesame Street Jones Town._ Tiny white peanut crumbs adhere to Stark’s hair and beard—making him look as if he’s come in from the snow—and he looks no closer to finding the _right_ Elmo—whatever that is. The one he is manhandling now comes with a little drum set. Agitation increasing steadily, Tony claws the box to shreds until he is left holding the toy, carefully examining the back and sides of the doll, fingers seeking something Natasha can’t quite make out. It is a testament to Tony’s exhaustion that it takes him the better part of a minute to find the on-switch, located on the bottom of Elmo’s left foot. A flick of Tony’s finger, and the doll springs to life, singing a frenetic version of _What I Like about You_ at the top of its mechanical lungs while wildly beating the drums. The dismayed look on Tony’s face quickly changes to rancor as he instantly hits the kill switch. Tony turns towards the couch and Coulson, but the agent sleeps on, undisturbed by Muppet madness. “ _Let’s Rock Elmo_ ,” Tony announces softly but firmly, “is a karaoke singing, bongo playing freak . . . hey, maybe Bruce would like him.” Natasha smiles at the image of Bruce playing the bongos with Elmo, then quashes the thought lest the idea take root.

Tony’s brows knit determinedly, and he cracks his knuckles; his body language is that of a fireman entering a burning building, silently announcing, ‘Let’s do this thing.’ Going from zero to sixty in as many seconds, Tony burns through a catalogue of Elmos:

“ _Potty Time Elmo_ —you gotta be fucking kidding me. It’s a cult.”

—and—

“ _LOL Elmo_? I knew it! It’s a fucking Taiwanese laugh-box retread they’ve been using since the 1998 Furby craze. Who greenlights this shit? Stark Industries has _got_ to get into the toy biz.”

—and—

“Are you kidding me! _Peek-A-Boo Elmo_ is built on the same chassis as the goddamned Rosko Bartender novelty? That’s a good one! What’ll it be next—Mix Me Another Martini Elmo?”

—and—

“My ‘nads are bigger than this Elmo.” Natasha watches, torn between equal amounts of concern and laughter, as Tony jams the tiny toy against his nose, and pretends to sneeze, shooting lil Elmo up and away in a high arch over the bed. “MY BOOGERS ARE BIGGER THAN THIS TOY!”

At the lunatic bellow, Natasha steps into the suite, ready to chill Stark’s ass out—physically, if necessary—but the stricken look that warps his features as he checks out Phil’s still-sleeping forms gives her pause. Tony’s fingers comb through his peanut-powdered hair, a self-soothing gesture if there ever was one, and Natasha watches as their resident unstable mental giant gets hold of his shit. Tony’s breathing has almost returned to normal when an unbidden, piping voice starts to sing, “ _What I like about you_. . . .”

“Shut the fuck up, Elmo,” Tony growls. He scoops up bongo Elmo, who appears to be struggling in Tony’s iron grasp. She watches as Tony’s fingers scramble across the bottom of Elmo’s left foot. “The point was to get a toy to help Steve relax and feel safe,” he bitches, flipping the switch. “Why the hell are you here? You can’t fucking wake Agent. What kind of toy are you? Who makes this shit? Don’t they know kids need to sleep?”

Elmo keeps singing.

Tony flips the switch again.

Elmo keeps singing.

Tony drops the toy and stomps it.

Elmo doesn’t shut the fuck up.

And then it’s Tony’s switch that finally flicks.

Tony snatches Elmo up and begins to violently disembowel the toy. Unconcerned, Elmo sings on. Natasha watches, horror mounting, as Tony bites Elmo’s ping-pong ball eye off and spits it across the room. Attacking is too mild a term—Tony is _violating_ Elmo, tearing the vocal toy limb from limb, white stuffing raining down, tufts of red fur clinging to his fingers and lips like a crazed Elmo cannibal.

Unconcerned, Elmo sings on.

Natasha is finally convinced that Tony’s cheese has slipped off the cracker, as Clint would say. She darts towards the bed, weighing the benefits of “cognitively recalibrating” Tony before he wakes Phil—but she realizes that ship has sailed: Phil is awake, exhaustion defeated by Tony the Elmo Slayer. She changes course, arriving at the couch as Phil sits up.

“Romanoff, update,” Coulson commands.

“Tony’s looking for a _Cure Captain America Elmo_ doll, but he’s not going to find him in that box.”

She watches as Coulson’s eyes carefully confirm the furry apocalypse for himself: the once pristine suite peppered in packing peanuts, severed corpses, and enough torn cardboard to fill a recycling truck, with one unhinged, tantruming genius in a hailstorm of Styrofoam dust, craft fur, and stuffing at the center. To his credit, Phil doesn’t blink a weary eye. “Why don’t you go check on Steve, and leave Tony to me for a bit,” Phil intones in his ever-so-polite ‘I’m a Level Seven agent, so take this request as the order it is’ voice. The forty minute nap hasn’t restored Coulson completely— _How could it?_ —but his skin has shed its terrifying waxiness in favor of a color closer to a lighter shade of pale. Likewise, Phil’s eyes, while still creased with exhaustion, are rested enough to project an abundance of compassion. Without further ado, Phil begins the arduous process of transferring himself from the couch to his wheelchair; Natasha immediately leans in to help, and is politely, but curtly, dismissed. “Thank you, Natasha. I’ve got this. Please give us some privacy.” _Because some things must be done without witnesses_ remains unsaid.

Natasha considers disobeying Phil’s orders, but the image of Stark in her peripheral vision— biting off bongo Elmo’s last eye, then spitting it out with so much force it reaches the ceiling fan, gets swept up by a moving blade, then shot back out pinball-style, its speedy trajectory only slowed when it pings off Tony’s forehead and nearly takes out his eye—convinces her she needs a big gun to shut this shit-storm down.

_Bruce._

Decision made, she runs full-tilt from the room.

Natasha skids to a stop in front of the door to Steve and Tony’s suite. She finger combs her hair, and smoothes down her skirt, unwilling to alarm Thor and Clint or, for that matter, to do anything that would unnecessarily rouse The Hulk, who she knows is already stalking the corridors of Bruce’s mind in a hissy fit at being unable to protect his captain from the increasingly disturbing attacks from unseen assailants, a frustration she well understands. Using her flesh as a mask, she puts on a bored and weary expression, and droopily enters the sweltering room. Thor and Clint both look up, like wolfhounds lifting their shaggy heads from their paws, but recognizing Natasha, and fooled by her demeanor, they return to guarding Steve’s unmoving form. Purposefully giving the impression of a girlfriend checking on her lover, Natasha edges into Bruce’s space. She looks at Steve for a count of three, then bends and whispers into Bruce’s ear, “Don’t react. You’ve got to come with me, right now, and bring some Stark-strength tranquilizer—a horse-sized dose of ketamine, if you’ve got it.”

Natasha has to admit it—her lover is one cool character. Bruce rummages in a bin of medicines next to the bed; then he bends over Steve’s blood pressure cuff and makes a tiny adjustment in the Velcro, and settles the oxygen mask more firmly over Steve’s nose and mouth, before announcing softly, “Left something in my room, fellas. Can you keep an eye on Steve for a few minutes?”

“Both eyes, my friend,” says Thor, his hard gaze on Steve unshifting.

“Yeah-yeah,” Clint says, shooting a smirking look in Natasha’s direction. She’s not psychic, but it’s easy for her to read Clint, on and off the battlefield—his expression says he approves of her plan to give Bruce a quickie, to take the edge off the strung-out doctor.

 _Good thing only I can fool him so easily_ , she thinks, as Clint moves to take Bruce’s chair, the ever-present vomit bucket tucked against his left side.

Natasha and Bruce leave together, and the moment the door _snicks_ shut behind them, her lips are against Bruce’s ear, giving him an abbreviated, but thorough update of Stark’s condition.

“I’m not Tony’s medical doctor,” Bruce protests softly. “Hell, I’m nobody’s doctor—”

“No time for navel gazing,” Natasha cuts in, even as she latches onto Bruce’s wrist and physically pulls him across the hall. “If we don’t do something fast, Tony’s going to hurt himself—and that will kill Steve as surely as Asgardian moonshine.”

“Yeah, but what’s it going to do to Tony to be sedated against his will? You know his history. Are you really willing to cross that line?”

“I’m willing to cross whatever lines have to be crossed to contain a situation that is about to go supernova.” Bruce sighs and nods, whether in agreement with her point, or just too weary to argue with her steely resolve she isn’t certain—and doesn’t care.

She pulls up short in front of the door to Thor’s suite. “What’s the plan? Make it short and simple.”

Bruce opens his palm to reveal a small syringe sealed in plastic wrap and a glass vial containing a clear liquid. “Olanzapine is used to treat acute agitation. Inject ten milligrams into a major muscle group—either deltoid or gluteus maximus will do—and in something like fifteen minutes you see a remarkable decrease in anxiety.” She doesn’t have to ask why her lover has an injectable sedative on hand.

Practiced hands peel away the syringe’s wrapping, and she watches as he stabs the needle through the vial’s rubber stopper. “It’s . . . uh . . . been on the market at least ten years . . . and . . . uh . . . no clinically significant side effects have been reported in all that time.” He carefully taps all of the air bubbles to the top of the barrel, and depresses the plunger just enough for a tiny squirt of medicine to jet upward.

“Okay,” she says. “Here’s our play: I’m going to go in and grab Stark; your job is to jab him in the ass. I’ll sit on him until this stuff kicks in.” At Bruce’s worried look, Natasha decides to take pity, and soothe her guy; her knuckles caress Bruce’s face, from cheek bone to collar bone, and back again. “Got it?”

Bruce nods, misery self-evident on his rugged features.

Natasha pushes open the door, ready to spring inside, and is met with—something unexpected.

Phil has motored through the detritus to reach the bedside; crushed packing peanuts still cling to the wheels of his chair. Tony is on his knees, face buried in Phil’s lap, his cheek tucked under Phil’s sling. Her boss’ good hand rests lightly between shoulders that heave and quake, but this is not a sign of weeping, Natasha thinks, a notion that is confirmed when Tony looks up into Phil’s caring, rheumy eyes, and the genius’ cheeks, though covered in fake fur and peanut crumbles, prove to be dry.

“No. I don’t want anything. I’ve sedated myself all my life,” Tony grinds out, as if each word were extracted by torture. “I’m not missing—” His voice breaks, and there is a pause before Tony can continue. “I’m not missing one agonizing second, Agent. If this is all I’ve got with Steve, I want to _be_ there with him. In the trenches.” Tony’s steely look could easily melt his armor. “Is it too fucking much to ask that goddamn Elmo be there with me? I just wanted to have something for him . . . something Steve likes . . . the last thing that made him smile. Why is this all so fucked up?”

Bruce and Natasha hover in the doorway, rooted in place by the sight before them, unable to retreat without drawing attention to themselves and unwilling to advance and disturb what is an ultimately private moment. Bruce looks guiltily at the syringe before quickly tucking it behind his back, Natasha feeling the shame his eyes are clearly communicating, shame over what he nearly did—what she nearly made him do—tasting a bit of it herself.

“Stark, finish the job,” Phil says firmly, flicking his gaze to the mostly empty box, which has been knocked to the floor and is resting amid the wreckage beside them.

Tony locks eyes with the agent, then nods. “Why the fuck not, eh?” Tony says, weariness and defeat self-evident in his voice. “Finish this fiasco and get back to Steve.”

Natasha watches as Tony practically disappears inside the box. He begins to pop in and out like a life-size Jack-in-the-Box, tossing discarded contents before tunneling in for more. What look to be Elmo Christmas ornaments go over his shoulder first—shattering against the side of the bookcase. An electric Elmo toothbrush, three Elmo baby rattles, and five picture books suffer the same fate. An Elmo trash can takes out a vase when it lands, followed by some footie pajamas and four packs of red furry mittens. When he slithers back into the box so deeply that only his wiggling ass and feet are visible, Tony gives a small cry—as if he’s taken a small arm’s hit. Or maybe he’s being pummeled by the remaining Elmos looking to avenge the massacre of their brothers? He crawls out of the box at speed, and clenched in his hand is _the Elmo._ Everything about Tony’s face, eyes, and body language assures Natasha the search is over. This Elmo isn’t even in a box. No, he comes out free of tape and zip ties, ready for action, as if knowing he’s being called to the service of a very important wounded warrior.

“Phil, look.”

“I see, Tony.”

“He’s just the right size—about a foot tall.”

“Yes.”

Tony smushes the doll to his face and announces, “He’s soft allover.”

“That’s good, Tony.”

Tony gives the toy a vigorous shake before clever fingers search for a non-existent power switch.

“And it doesn’t fucking talk or dance or sing.”

“Quiet is good.”

Tony’s thumb and forefinger trace the circumference of one white eye. “They’re soft too. Not ping-pong balls.”

“I’m happy for you, Tony,” Phil says calmly. “May I see Elmo, please?”

Natasha watches as, for a moment, Tony pulls the doll closer to his chest, like a dog protecting a bone. Tony doesn’t know it, but the red character is bathed in the diffused blue light of his arc reactor, gifting the fur with a purplish tint. After a moment, one in which Phil seems content to wait forever, if necessary, Tony shakes himself allover, and tentatively hands Elmo to Phil.

“You’re right,” Phil says gently, a small smile creasing the corners of his eyes. “He’s perfect. I’m sure Steve will love him.”

“Y-you think?”

“I’m sure of it.” Phil places Elmo on his lap before reaching for Tony’s face, brushing away stray fur and dust with his fingers. “Now go wash your face, Tony.” His hand moves to the top of Tony’s head, static electricity causing hundreds of tiny Styrofoam crumbs to cling to the mass of mad scientist hair. “Run a comb through this, too. Elmo and I will wait here for you.”

Again Natasha is tempted to rush to Stark’s side when the man struggles to his feet, spins drunkenly, and only manages not to crash into Phil by grabbing the wheelchair’s handles. Instead she signals for Bruce to take a step back, so that both of them may hide in the hallway, and avoid Tony’s notice as he staggers and reels to the bathroom. Only when the bathroom door is shut, and the sound of water is heard, does Natasha, followed by Bruce, cautiously enter the room and go to Phil’s side.

“Whatever Fury’s paying you isn’t enough,” Bruce says softly, so quiet that the running water nearly covers his proclamation. His voice is infused with equal parts of what sounds like awe and irony. “You should lay that mojo on me the next time the Other Guy starts to put in an unwanted appearance—it just might nip a stressful situation in the bud.”

“Who knew getting Steve a stuffed toy would be so taxing?” Natasha adds, even as she gives Phil the once over, visually confirming that the man is unharmed.

“The toy isn’t for Steve,” Phil says calmly, gently tucking Elmo into his sling for safe keeping. “He won’t even know that it’s there. Elmo is for Tony. It’s his talisman—an amulet to ward harm away from the one he loves.”

“I suppose even engineers aren’t above a little magical thinking,” says Bruce. “Though I think, for Tony, just being able to _do_ something for Steve has got to feel better than drowning in all the helplessness.” Bruce adjusts his glasses and sighs heavily, more than likely trying to shrug off the burden of helplessness weighing down his own shoulders.

Phil nods his head. “Elmo is the best kind of magic: Hope. Something we all need right now.”

 _Hope._ Such a strange concept, Natasha thinks, to fit inside one odd little doll. For a moment, she contemplates the fuzzy creature peering out of Phil’s sling—bright eyes, goofy grin, cuddly fur. No, she can’t see it, but she understands how others can.

“I should get back to Steve,” Bruce says. “Looks like you guys have things under control in here.”

“Well, the boss does, for sure,” Natasha states, not bothering to hide her admiration. “And I suppose Elmo does, too.”

Phil takes a slow, deep breath, as he often does when readying himself for a mission. “I have the feeling Elmo’s work has just begun.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **A Final Note from Brooke Lynn:** If you enjoyed this story, please let Agent_Orange_III know and, hopefully, she will be inspired to play in this sandbox again soon! My next full story in the series is well underway, taking place directly where _Kaleidoscope_ left off. I am working hard on it, as well as on more One-Shots and short stories, which I hope you will be interested in reading. Again, I thank you all for your support and generous comments. Please know how much you inspire and help keep me going through the rigorous process of writing.


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